


We Could Be Giants

by geckoholic



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Permanent Injury, Casual Sex, F/M, First Meetings, Hospitals, Or Is It?, Oral Sex, Raven Reyes-centric, Showing Someone Your City, Uneven Beginning To A Relationship, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-07 19:12:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7726438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>The worst thing about hospitals, Raven has decided after several stays in various institutions, is the smell. This one is making an effort to seem homely, cheap paintings on the wall and a few splotches of color in the decorations here and there, but it still stinks like disease and disinfectants. It has her tossing and turning in bed after the first day, exhausted and hurting but restless. </em>
</p><p>AKA the one where Raven introduces herself to Bellamy by accidentally punching him in the nose in a hospital weight room in the middle of the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Could Be Giants

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ElasticElla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElasticElla/gifts).



> You didn't really give any prompts beyond saying you wanted an AU, so I had a conference with my beta and we picked _"i was super pissed so i went to the gym even thought it's really late at night so i was the only one there and i was at the punching bag listening to music and you surprised me by tapping me on the shoulder, holy shit i didn't mean to punch you, i'm so sorry, but seriously why the hell would you SURPRISE SOMEONE WHO IS ANGRY AND PUNCHING THINGS" AU_ as a prompt. Also I know this is kinda silly and lacking in some places, but at this point I'm not sure I care anymore. Also I wrote this over three days because I went on vacation and my time management sucks. So, uh. Enjoy? XD
> 
> Beta-read by raiindust. Thank you!! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "Youth" by Wild Wild Horses.

Raven has the letter pinned up on her fridge. She kept it – because, obviously, one does not throw away evidence of an invitation to a job interview at fucking NASA – and she dug it from her desk the day Finn moved out. She passes it every morning, stares at it, mumbles a few expletives, and then gets on with her life. 

Which isn't happening in Texas. 

When she leaves the house, she’s not going to the Johnson Space Center, like it should have been. 

She’s not even going to _work_. 

No, she never went to that job interview. She stayed here with Finn. For the first time in her life, she got scared. She didn't spread her wings and fly, and that was kinda the beginning of the end. None of what happened since then is the town's fault, but nevertheless, she has begun to hate Arkadia, feeling like it's her cage, her prison, the curse she inherited from her mother.

Raven lashes up the ties on her leg brace and hobbles to the door with gritted teeth, throwing the letter a look that's part longing, part disdain. The next few days will consist of doctor's visits and physical therapy, the persistent aftermath of her second surgery. She's alone, now, anyway, Finn gone off with someone else, and she's sure somewhere beyond the horizon the gods of fate are having a good laugh on her expense. 

Today Sinclair's taken the day off work and honks at her, superfluously, when she steps out the door. The only real upside of a town this small; there'll always be someone around to play taxi. Everyone around here has known her since she was little, and a lot of them already banded together to help her when she was fifteen and her mother finally managed to drink herself to death. 

He knows better than to comment on her pained expression when she flops into the passenger seat, but Raven, feeling confrontational, hefts an eyebrow at him anyway. Sinclair refuses to take the bait. With a shake of his head he shoves a worn navigation device into her hands and starts the engine. Raven gets the pamphlet from the clinic out of her jacket pocket and types in the address. They're headed to Washington for her follow-up, the second this month, another two days in a hospital room that'll only remind her of the days after the accident. And it's not like they're doing her any good, either; at this point Raven's convinced sitting around on the couch with the stupid leg propped up in front of her all day would have the same effect. But going along is easier than listening to yet another lecture about how she needs to be patient, it was a complicated fracture and healing takes time, given by people who know even less about medicine than she does. The only one who doesn't lecture her is Sinclair, which is probably ironic, given that he used to be her teacher. 

She settles in her seat and stares out the window while he steers the car out of town and onto the interstate, the beginning of an hour-long drive spent in companionable silence. 

 

*** 

 

The worst thing about hospitals, Raven has decided after several stays in various institutions, is the smell. This one is making an effort to seem homely, cheap paintings on the wall and a few splotches of color in the decorations here and there, but it still stinks like disease and disinfectants. It has her tossing and turning in bed after the first day, exhausted and hurting but restless. 

She sits up on the bed, gets her good leg underneath herself and turns on the night light. She looks out the large window that presents a terrible view of office buildings and construction sites and wants to scream, or puke, or both. Hospital stays were easier when she still had some hope left that he injury might be temporary, and that all would be well if only she worked hard enough. And work she did; she did everything the doctors told her, continued her physical therapy exercises longer and more often than the instructions said. The rest of her, apart from the bad leg, is fitter than she's ever been. Yet still, the pain won't go away. It dulls, sometimes, and other times it spikes, leaving her breathless and with tears pricking the corner of her eyes, unpredictable like an earthquake that makes her life erupt into chaos and agony. 

Raven grabs the pamphlet from the nightstand and skims through it for the site map, her fingers checking every small-font description until she finds the location of the weight room. No one else will be there at this time of the night, and she feels slightly elated at the prospect of powering herself out until sleep will come easily, not leaving her body another choice other than giving in to exhaustion. She changes into a t-shirt and gym shorts, grabs her iPod and then she's off, sneaking out of her room and to the elevators, avoiding the night nurse so she won't have to explain herself or endure the kind of well-meant but ultimately empty platitudes that hospital staff hands out on their sixteenth hour on duty. 

The weight room is indeed abandoned, the landscape of sports equipment dipped into darkness and looking a little like a city skyline during a power outage. The ceiling lights flicker to life reluctantly, the typical ping louder than usual in the stillness of the room. Raven swipes through her music list, picks something fast and urgent, a steady beat that will provide her with a punishing rhythm, and puts the earphones in. The first few punches feel foreign and alien, physical exertion still not something that comes naturally to her, as used as she is to working with her head, not her body, but muscle memory kicks in soon enough and then she's loosing herself in it: the music, the dull thud of the punching bag, the worn leather giving underneath her fists. 

Her heart almost stops when she feels someone tapping her shoulder, and she swings around mid-punch. It's too late to abort the movement, and before she knows it her fist connects with the nose of the boy in front of her, and he recoils, steps back and stares at her accusingly, breath coming in pants, eyes wide. 

“What the _fuck_ ,” he says, one hand coming up to press to his nose. It comes away with a little red, and he looks from the blood on his palm to Raven, then back, expression growing more and more scandalized. 

Raven has to bite her tongue, suppressing a wholly inappropriate giggle fit born from surprise and adrenaline and the absurdity of the situation. She schools her features into what she hopes is affronted disdain. “Your own fault, really, sneaking up on me like that.” 

His eyes are still darting back and forth between her and the punching back and his own hand, but he shrugs his shoulders and wipes the blood off on his jeans. They're dark and sort of dirty, and it doesn't even leave a visible smudge. 

“I wasn't _sneaking up_ on you. Just wanted to make sure you're okay. You looked a little... spaced out.” He blows unruly hair out of his forehead and shoves both hands into his pants pockets. “Besides, this is a public facility, and have you ever considered that other people might want a turn?” 

“Frankly,” she says, “at this time of the night I didn't really expect there to be a line.” She steps to the side and plants her hands on her hips. “But hey, knock yourself out.” 

Her bad leg lags a bit, robbing the gesture of some of its intended nonchalance. Sure enough, his gaze drops down, but Raven stands tall, juts her chin out at him, lips pursed, both eyebrows raised. 

He frowns, forehead wrinkling in thought for a moment, but whatever comeback he might've cooked up never leaves his lips. Instead he moves away from both her and the bag, shoulders hunched, relenting. 

“I'll find something else,” he says, and turns, and even though the last thing Raven wanted was company she also doesn't really want to see him go. 

“Wait,” she almost-shouts, her voice bouncing off the walls in the otherwise quiet room. He stills, looking back at her over his shoulder with evident confusion, and she flaps a hand towards his face. “Your nose. There's blood smeared all over it, and we should probably clean that up a bit before you leave.” 

“We're in a hospital,” he points out. “I'm sure there's someone around who can take a look.”

Raven sighs. Suddenly she feels dumb and misplaced, and, worse still, she feels the adrenaline she fought so hard for receding. “Sure, whatever. I just thought, since I'm the one who hit you, I should, you know. At least try and help.” 

He gives her a once-over, like he's just now actually _noticing_ her, and walks back to where she's still standing next to the punching bag. He stops a little closer to her than strictly necessary, and Raven's skin prickles in a good way. He peers at her from under that mop of her, and he smiles. His lips are just barely curving up, but it reaches his eyes, which hadn't previously caught her attention, dark brown and warm and zeroing in on her, and at the sight she decides she needs something to busy her hands with. A little distance might be good, too. Yes. Definitely. Less proximity. There's a sink at the far end of the room, and that's where she's retreats, plugging a bunch of paper towels from a dispenser on the wall and waving them around like a precious and long-awaited discovery. 

That's when her impromptu escape plan catches up to her though, because in order to clean his face she'll have to get closer again. A whole lot closer. Touching him, even, which seems like a fantastic and tremendously awful idea at the same time. Raven takes a deep breath, silently hoping he won't notice, wets the towels and gestures at one of the banks for weight-lifting. “Sit down.” 

And because she's not a total loser – and far from a shy blushing virgin – her heart beat slows down the moment her fingers actually touch his skin, tilting his head up so she can carefully wipe at the drying blood on his nose. He sucks his upper lip between his teeth, but doesn't protest or move away. If he's in pain, he doesn't show it, buried underneath something else, something more urgent, something that reverberates within her and makes her blink. It occurs to Raven that she might've broken his nose and he maybe should seek out the help of one of the many medical professionals in this place, but then his hand wraps around her wrist, halting her movements, and their eyes meet. He shifts on the bank, straightening up; he's a good deal taller than Raven, and before she knows it his face his inches away from her own. 

“Okay?” he asks, and she closes her eyes, leans down to meet him. The position is awkward for both of them, but the kiss is wonderful, slow exploration, testing whether it'll feel right. 

All her life, Raven has only ever kissed on person, and since the breakup she'd had other things on her mind. No room to imagine what might come after, who she'll meet next, but this surely isn't how she ever pictured it; kissing a stranger in the middle of the night, and in a hospital basement no less. 

They part, and she draws back, licking her lips. “I don't even know your name.” 

“Bellamy,” he says, with the same small smile that made her waver in the first place, and pats the space next to him on the bank. It's not meant to serve as a seating accommodation, and she has to scoot up close in order not to slide off the end. Their arms brush, and in light of the fact that they just _kissed_ it feels sort of appropriate to rest her head on his shoulder. 

“Well then,” she says, glancing up at him, smiling back. “I'm Raven.” 

 

*** 

 

Not much else happens that night – another kiss or two, comparatively chaste – but they talk. They talk about her accident and the leg and about Finn and his new girlfriend and the leg and NASA. They talk about Bellamy's sister, who's the reason he's here, both in the hospital and in the weight room to blow off steam; she'd run away with her boyfriend, convinced she's an adult at sixteen and knows better than her overbearing brother, and returned with a broken arm and awareness whatsoever of what she'd done wrong, the worry she'd caused. They talk about the fact that he'd bailed from work to get her out of trouble, not for the first time, and might not have a job to go back to tomorrow. They talk about his mother, so absent she might as well not have been there, even before she died, and how Raven can surely relate to that one. 

They talk until the sun comes up and brings with it the dawning realization that Raven might be in trouble if she's missing for the morning rounds. 

What they don't talk about is whether or not they'll meet again, or if this is going to go anywhere else than stolen kisses an empty weight room. Raven leaves with a short, hurried goodbye and one last look back as he takes off in the other direction to check on his sister. 

 

*** 

 

Raven just so manages to stay awake until the doctor shows, and only yawns at her four times in the space of five minutes. The verdict is the same as all the other times: there's little left that anyone can do. She orders x-rays that Raven knows won't bring a different result either, and they discuss pain medication for the umpteenth time. 

Afterward, she sleeps. Tomorrow morning Sinclair will take her back home. This is her last trip to yet another hospital, seeing yet another doctor. She's thought about that before, calling it quits, to stop trying to fix herself and start dealing, but finally she's reaching her line in the sand. She's had enough. That's the thought bouncing around her head when she falls asleep, and she wakes to the sound of repeated, insistent knocks on the door to her hospital room. 

She blearily blinks open her eyes, and shoots up straight in bed when the blurry silhouette in front of her finally de-warps itself into a recognizable person. 

Bellamy's leaning on the door frame, thumbs hooked in his belt loops. He looks at her with a fondness she's not sure she has earned yet. 

“How did you find me?” Raven wants to know, rubbing her eyes. It's easier than inquiring about the fact that he did find her, that he's here, that he wants to continue whatever it is they started last night and made an effort to see her again. 

“I asked around.” He shifts, redistributing his weight from one foot to the other, and scratches his neck. “Turns out Raven isn't a very common name.” 

The way he says it is so charmingly aimed at en passant and missing by a mile that Raven has to swallow a laugh that he'll surely misinterpret. She arranges the stiff hospital blanket around her body – she's wearing an oversized t-shirt and panties, nothing else – and maneuvers her legs over the edge of the bed, swinging in the air because hospital beds are always unreasonably high. She looks at his face – freckled and dark-skinned and pretty, stuck somewhere between an earnest imitation of confidence and obvious nerves, bruises underneath his eyes because he's had about as much sleep as she did, possibly less – and she has an idea. 

“Do you want to get out of here?” she asks on a whim. 

He looks around the room, gaze stuttering at the bag under her bed, the chart with her name on it stuck to the footboard. “Are you sure it's a good idea – “

“Honestly? Maybe not. But I'm sick to death of hospitals, and I've had enough doctors tell me they're sorry and they'll try but they don't think they can do anything for me. I want...” She pauses, because she hadn't thought that far ahead. The idea is hardly a minute old, and her plan began and ended with _take him and run_. “I want to feel alive. I want to see more of the city than yet another hospital. I want to be reminded that there's more to me than a bum leg and an overflowing medical file.” 

Head cocked to the side, Bellamy studies her face. Then his eyes stray to the hallway behind him; to another room in this godforsaken hospital, most likely, where his sister's laid up and waiting for the obligatory twenty-four hours post-accident to end so she'll be released back into his care. For a moment, Raven's sure he'll say no, that he’ll give in to a responsibility that he shouldn't have to carry in the first place and stay here. 

But he draws in a breath and stands a little taller, then nods. “Not sure the corners of the city I know are the ones anyone would want to see,” he says, “but I'll try.” 

Raven grins brightly and gestures for him to turn around, throws the blanket to the side and slides off the bed. The cold linoleum under her feet makes her shiver. She reaches for her bag and changes into a fitted t-shirt and jeans wide enough to hide her brace, and she ignores the concerned calls of the nurses when they walk out of her room and head for the exit. 

 

*** 

 

He takes her hand when he leads them on the first underground train, claiming it's because there's a cluster of people crowding the platform and he might lose her otherwise. But he doesn't let go even when they're safely seated, rendering that excuse null and void. Raven doesn't mind. She threads their fingers together for good measure and smiles at him like it's Christmas morning, what it must have been like to get called downstairs by gleefully excited parents. It never happened that way, for her, and she assumes it didn't for him either. 

The street names of the stations they pass don't mean anything to Raven and she doesn't care to memorize them. She realizes it's foolish and naive to trust him this much. They've known each other for mere hours. There's no means to determine whether a word he’s told her is true at all, and she should at least keep track of where they're going so she can make her way back alone, just in case. 

But she _does_ trust him. That's one of the things she should be working on, instead of focusing all her energy on fixing an unfixable injury: trusting her instincts, like she hasn't in so long. 

They get off at one of the more rundown stations, littered with cigarette stubs and the torn remains of days-old newspapers. He leads her up the stairs and past a grumpy-looking ticket collector who hardly looks up from her screen, and onto a street that smells like stale booze and cheap greasy food. There's a cold breeze that wheedles its way into up her legs and makes goosebumps spread on her skin. 

Bellamy squeezes her hand. “What's your opinion on Chinese food?” 

She doesn't answer, just nods and smiles, and fifteen minutes later they're sat in a corner booth at a ridiculous Chinese restaurant that's ticking every box for the expected clichés, from the extensive dragon-themed decorations to low oriental music playing in the background, and the plastic orchids sat on their table next to a half burned down candle. Food sizzles in the open kitchen, and the cook who nodded at Bellamy upon entry got right to work when he ordered for them without a look at the menu. 

Now he's settled into the corner between booth and wall, arm outstretched on the backrest, absentmindedly brushing his thumb against Raven's neck. 

“This isn't very touristy,” he says, apologetically, and Raven shakes her head with fervor. 

“It's perfect.” She resists the urge to inch closer and fit herself into his arms, but they're in public and it'd be presumptuous and her mother did teacher her some manners. Well, Finn's parents did, mostly, but she's not much in the mood for fine print. 

After, they walk around street corners that wouldn't be bullet points in any tourist guide but that Raven drinks in regardless; the place where his first babysitter lived, his old school, the pizza delivery service he worked at when he was fifteen, too young for legal employment but the owner's been a friend and he got to keep his tips to himself as well and sometimes that did make a difference. 

Sometime around early afternoon, they stop in front of nondescript apartment building and for the first time since they left the hospital Bellamy's looking flustered, hesitant, aware that neither of them knows the other's boundaries or intentions and he might be overstepping. Raven can't quite come up with the right words to assure him that he's not, that he won't, and instead rises up on her tiptoes and takes his face between her hands, kissing him until her calf starts cramping and she has to lower herself back down. 

He smiles at her, a little dazed, but happy, and fishes in his jeans pocket until he produces a set of keys with a furry handmade figurine attached to the keyring that Raven assumes Octavia made for him a long time ago. The inside of the stairway is cold and dark, only a few wayward rays of light falling through the small window above the door. The stairs creak all the way up to the third floor, where he's consulting his keys again, letting them into a small apartment that's somehow tidier, homier than she expected. There's flowers on the kitchen table and a neatly folded woolen blanket spread on the couch, clean dishes stacked on a rack near the sink. A litter box hints at the presence of a cat that's nowhere to be seen. 

Bellamy opens the door to a room that's as tidy and well-organized as the rest of the apartment, no wall decoration save for rows and rows of book shelves, filled with everything from comic books to illustrated editions on history and biology. It adds to a constantly changing picture, the boy in front of her turning and shifting, hard to get a real grip on. Raven discovers she likes that; Finn didn’t contain many layers not already visible from the surface. Bellamy is unfathomable, new and exciting and impossible to learn at just a glance. 

The room is small: aforementioned shelves, a desk, a bed, an armchair by the window, and not much empty room in between. She takes a moment to consider and then presses past him – closer than strictly necessary – and sits down on the bed, blinking up at him. 

His face flickers with uncertainty. “Now's probably when I should ask if you really want this.” 

“Probably,” Raven shoots back, giving him a glare. A bit of one. Nothing too scathing, but enough to telegraph that she appreciates the intent, but sorry, he's wrong. “But you won't, because I'm an adult, same as you, and believe me, if I _didn't_ want this I'd have let you know much earlier.” 

At that, he smirks, wandering over to the bed and sitting down next to her. “Well. When you put it like that.” 

“Moron,” she says, but doesn't get much further because this time it's him who wraps a hand around her neck, pulls her into his space for a kiss, slow and languid and like they have all the time in the world. She considers his course corrected and kisses back, pressed up against him, her mind comfortably emptying itself of every thought that's not about _him_. 

Warm afternoon sun falls in through the window, warming the space where her hand supports the weight of her upper body. Both of them, really, because he's leaning into her, one hand sneaking its way underneath the hem of her shirt. He's delicate about it, fingertips barely grazing her skin, but it's been month since she's felt someone else's touch like this – for pleasure rather than examination or assurance – and it makes her gasp, electrified. 

He pulls back, studying her face for a moment. Misinterpreting it, from the look that starts to cloud his own again. “You good?” 

“Yes,” Raven confirms, lying back on the bed, because if he keeps this up he'll spoil the mood. “Stop fucking asking.” 

To underline her point, she tugs at his shirt until she's maneuvered him on top of her, sat across her lap, one leg folded up on either side of her hips. Evidence that he's enjoying himself is digging into her leg; he must know that she feels it, and he searches for her gaze. His pupils have started to dilate, black inching out the warm brown color of his eyes. That's something else she missed, seeing her own desire mirrored in a partner, feeling _wanted_. 

He leans down, not to kiss her but to lick a line across her neck, up to behind her ear. He sucks on the lope, adds just a little scrape of teeth, and Raven remembers that she's allowed to touch _back_ , fiddling with his t-shirt until she's got both hand raking up and down his torso. The shirt needs to _go_ , and in a herculean effort she manages to sort her priorities, skin on skin a more urgent concern than her need for him to continue what he's doing. She paws at him, pushes him off, and tugs at fabric. Luckily he's quick on the uptake, and the t-shirt comes off, discarded to the foot of the bed. Raven follows suit, hesitating only briefly before she unclasps her bra as well, adding it to the pile of clothes they're accumulating. 

Still sat up, he cups her breasts with his hand, holding her eyes as he brushes a thumb against each nipple, making them harden underneath his touch. She bites her lip, and he smirks, second thoughts evidently forgotten. 

Then, inexplicably, he _stands up_. Raven's about to protest, but reconsiders as he kneels between her legs, undoing the buttons on her jeans. She toes off her shoes and he taps her hip to make her lift her ass and slides the jeans down, carefully so as to prevent them from getting stuck on her brace. Gently, he pushes her legs apart, buries his face between them, mouthing at the fabric of her panties, and peers up at her again. He seems to like that; watching her, cataloging her reactions, and it's hot, makes her feel a little like she's performing, makes her want to put on a show. She reaches down and shimmies out of her panties, too, now naked, and opens her legs wider still. 

As invitations go, it's rather unambiguous. 

His gaze dips down as he parts her labia with no apparent urgency, dragging his forefinger down the wetness there, and she bunches the sheets between her hands in anticipation. The rustle recaptures his attention and he looks up at her again, mouth replacing his fingers, tongue licking into her. 

He teases a first shallow orgasm out of her that way; nothing spectacular, her body relearning the sensation, just enough to make her close her legs around his head when it's done, momentarily overstimulated, as a signal to let up. He stands, looking down at her with a self-satisfied grin that's a lot less unattractive than it should be, delivered with swollen, spit-slick lips and accompanied by an arousal-induced blush that starts in his cheeks and reaches all the way down his chest. 

Raven shifts on the bed, lying down the length of it, both legs bent – as much as it's possible with her bad leg – and reaches down between them, lazily playing with herself. His eyes widen, and he clears his throat, sheds his own jeans and boxers without fanfare, but not without producing a condom wrapper from his wallet. At this point his nonchalant, unnerving patience is starting to crack, which is surprisingly satisfying to watch. He kneels in the v of her legs and bats her hand away, replaces it with his own, thumbing at her clit with near-perfect pressure, and screws his eyes shut, and Raven seizes the opportunity to get _her_ hands on _him_. He stills when she begins stroking him, and when he moves again it's in time with her, his whole body mirroring the slide and twist of her hand around his cock. She drags a finger over the tip, just slightly wet, and he _jerks_. All that, too, is gratifying beyond words; how he lets go so easily once conscious thought is out of the door. She didn't have him pegged as the type to surrender control for any reason at all, not even for this. 

With a murmured curse, he draws back, putting the condom on with fingers that aren't exactly shaking but do somewhat lack coordination, and then he's pushing in, gently, stopping every few seconds to give her a chance to get used to the penetration. She meets him, swiveling her hips, good leg wrapped around his hips as much as she can manage, and they find a rhythm. Muscle memory takes over as they're moving together, lost in pure blissful pleasure that spreads from her belly and fans out into her limbs, leaving her boneless and spun too tight at the same time. He bends down to kiss her, filthy in the best way, only drawing back when his thrusts speed up, broadcasting the approach of his orgasm, and she feels him slow down in a conscious effort to wait, to get her off first. She gets a hand between their bodies and rubs at her clit in synch with his movements for assistance, until she feels the first waves of her own climax slosh through her, withdraws run that same hand up and down his lower back, his ass, and then he lets loose, fucking into her a few more times in long, messy thrusts.

He swears into her collarbone when he comes, and she rakes her fingers through his hair, presses her lips to side of his head, enjoying the way remnant pleasure fizzles through her body in her afterglow, the warmth of his body, the weight of it, missing it instantly when he rolls off her to get rid of the condom. But he makes up for that by drawing her in close on his return, kissing her again. 

Raven isn't quite sure how long they lie there, curled up against each other. She should probably figure that out; they don't have much time. It's flowing through their fingers like sand, an hourglass counting away the hours. She needs to be back at the hospital before anyone can make a ruckus, and tomorrow morning she'll go back to Arkadia. For him, there's Octavia, due to be released later in the evening if nothing unforeseen happens, and finding new ways to makes sure their heads stay above water. 

None of this for keeps. 

All that does thought does, though, is making her want to hold on harder, more reluctant to let him go. He doesn't make any move to get up and get dressed for the longest time either. But then his phone rings, the little sister demanding to be appeased because she's not used to him _not_ being around when she needs him, and their little bubble pops. 

 

***

 

Not unexpectedly, Raven's doctor is a lot less cheery and reassuring on her last examination. She talks about _a lack of cooperation_ and _an attitude not very conductive to the healing process_. Raven doesn't quite find it in her to care, lets the lecture prattle over her head with little interjection. She packs her bag and goes to sit on the curb outside, waiting for Sinclair to show. She looks at the city's skyline, a longing in her heart for much more than the boy who managed to distract her from the shit show her life has become, if only for a day. 

A couple weeks later, she discovers a job ad in one of the science magazines Sinclair hands down to her whenever none of his current students want them, and she decides it's time to try and break out of her cage, fix past mistakes. Plus, she figures, after all that's happened in recent years Lady Luck owes her one anyway. 

 

***

 

There's a badge pinned to Raven's fridge. It goes there every evening, to be taken with her every morning when she leaves for work. It states her name and position and contains a magnetic strip that grants her access to the NASA headquarters. Where she works. It's not quite the kind of position she was aiming for when she applied the first time, years ago, but it's still a dream come true. Some days she pinches herself, right after waking, holds her breath and closes her eyes, stupidly afraid that when she opens them again all of this will have fallen away. 

It doesn't. It's real, and it's still as overwhelming as the day she moved to DC, weeks after the fact. 

She dresses in a neat office-appropriate pantsuit, grabs the badge from the fridge and heads out. The security staff at the entrance knows her by now, and waves her through with the throng of colleagues all out to change the world, one code-break or equation at a time. 

There's one thing left to do. In her purse sits a handwritten note with a phone number she jotted down from the phone book during her first week in the city. A couple more weeks have passed, and as she pays the woman at the sandwich stand and puts her money away, she decides that today's the day. Today she'll call him. 

Sat outside in the sun, the sandwich on the bench beside her, she digs her cell phone out of her handbag and dials. 

He picks up on the third ring, sounding a little rushed, annoyed, like this call is an inconvenience and he'd much rather have thrown his phone against the nearest wall. 

“Hey,” Raven says, bright and casual. Like they've talked every day since they met and this is just another conversation.

At first, she's greeted by perplexed silence. Then, “How'd you get my number?” 

He sounds tentative, careful. A little excited, though, if she's not mistaken. She might be; wishful thinking, et cetera. 

“Turns out,” Raven explains, “there aren't that many Bellamy Blakes in the phone book.”

“Ah,” he replies, voice a bit lighter. “And how'd you know my last name?” 

“Please. I'm a rocket scientist, remember?” Raven rolls her eyes, fully aware he can't see her, somehow convinced he'll _hear_ it. He'll know. “I read it on your door plate when we left. Give me a little credit here.” She leaves a space for him to comment, but he doesn't, and so she pushes on. “Hey, funny thing. I got a job in DC. Moved here a few weeks ago. And I thought... well, maybe we could see each other again?”

He doesn't reply for a few moments, and Raven hates the ball of nervousness, fear of rejection, that curls in her belly. This is happening either way, with our without him. She doesn't need him to do this. He'd just be a bonus. The ink on her work contract has been dry for a few weeks, so has the ink her lease. Washington isn't getting rid of her anytime soon. There's shouting in the background on his end of the line. A female voice – Octavia, probably. There’s a rustle when he covers the speaker to reply something back, and Raven hears him breathe when he turns his focus back to her. Seconds tick by unused. She doesn't know what he's got to work through, why the suggestion needs to be weighed and vetted, but she lets him. She waits. _Just a bonus._ Her happiness here doesn't hinge on him. That's not a mistake she's making twice. It'd be nice, is all. 

“Yes,” he says eventually. Decisive, on an exhale. “I'd like that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://lostemotion.tumblr.com).


End file.
